Adrift, and without a star to steer by
by MissLolaLavell
Summary: Moriarty seemingly keeps his promise to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes. Now John is (supposedly) dead, and Sherlock is left adrift in a world that he is no longer able to function within. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but he suspects that it will, in time... -John/Sherlock-


_Disclaimer: __Sherlock belongs to the ACD, the BBC, Moffat and Gatiss - no copyright infringement intended._

Edited.

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Adrift, and without a star to steer by

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_Prologue:_

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It falls upon Mycroft to break the news to Sherlock.

He delays the moment for as long as is decently possible, pacing the echoing corridors of lime-green linoleum with a slow, pensive tread. When the nurse finally finds him to place her hand on his shoulder and murmur 'You can see him now, Mr Holmes', he simply nods, smiles, thanks her politely. It suddenly strikes him at how unaccustomed he is to the kindness of others. The pity in her eyes is almost unbearable, and he finds that he is unable to meet her gaze, anxious that something within him might crack and shatter away.

He stops by the vending machine on the way back to Sherlock's ward. The pungent coffee in it's flimsy plastic cup is an affront to every sense of refinement that he holds dear, but the act of drinking allows him to procrastinate for a few minutes further, and so he endures it for that reason alone. Far away, he can hear the usual layered cacophony of hospital noise: doors opening and closing, voices raised, and more distant still, ambulance sirens wailing like cats into the night. The empty halls carry their resonance far - this wing has been shut off from the general public. It was a pre-emptive action, designed to keep the ever-growing gaggle of reporters from roaming the wards unchecked. Mycroft has seen them gathering outside the hospital gates, clamouring blindly for a story like so many pale, overfed grubs startled from under an upturned log. The image feels ugly and alien in his thoughts. He finishes the coffee without ever really realising that he was drinking it.

The doors to Sherlock's room open with a squeal. Inside, the space is dim and still, and the only illumination is pooled in a sickly florescent halo around Sherlock's bed. Mycroft has always been a creature of the shadows, however. He lurks by the doorway, where the gloom is the deepest. The electronic bleep of a cardiac monitor keeps time like a metronome.

"How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stirs faintly at the sound of his brother's voice. His eyes are shot with capillaries, the lids bloody and swollen, but all the familiar intelligence flickers behind them nonetheless. He glowers at Mycroft from over the rim of his oxygen mask. _Like I__'__ve been beaten to within an inch of my life, then shot, you idiot. What a ridiculous question. Fetch me more drugs. _

Mycroft smiles, entirely without humour. His hands are restless and agitated without the familiar weight of his umbrella, so he clasps them behind his back to still them. He is startled at how impossibly small Sherlock appears amid the myriad of machinery that surrounds the bed. The effigy before him is crumpled, broken, and every limb is threaded with a tangle of drips and wires. Mycroft is reminded uncomfortably of a marionette whose strings have been cut.

"You should count yourself fortunate, you know," Mycroft tells him, his voice low and curiously flat. "By all accounts, you should be dead. Or at the very least, a vegetable. That you survived at all is nothing short of miraculous."

_Boring_. Sherlock tries to snort his contempt, but succeeds only in a dry, breathless spluttering against the mask. His chest is bare, thin and bird-like, and his ribs strain against his skin with every rattling gasp. And he is white - so very, very white in the spotlight of the overhead lamp.

The coughing subsides into a guttural wheeze. Sherlock's lips move now beneath the plastic, forcing his mouth to give shape to the rough sigh that is emitted in place of a voice. "…_John_?"

And there it is. The word settles like a punch in Mycroft's gut, its impact felt all the more deeply for the guileless look of expectation on Sherlock's face.

_He doesn__'__t know. Somehow, impossibly, he doesn__'__t know. _

In some private, selfish corner of Mycroft's mind, he finds himself dismayed by this. Truthfully, he had hoped that his brother's incredible powers of deduction would lead him to the facts on his own, thereby sparing him from the burden of exposition. But as it stands, Sherlock's gaze slides away from Mycroft like water over a stone, peering behind him in anticipation that, _any second now_, John Watson will come marching through the swing doors, ready to both berate and adore him in equal quantities.

…Except that, of course, he won't. Won't ever, in fact. The sinking dread that has trailed Mycroft since his arrival at the hospital suddenly crystallises into a newer, more tangible ache. He feels it settle, like a lead weight over his heart.

"_Could it be," he hears himself saying to John, in a place that is both long ago and far away, "You've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?" _

There had been incredulity in the statement, and sadness too, because - really - hadn't he always been waiting for this day, ever since John first installed himself in Baker Street? There had only ever been one way that Sherlock's peculiar, symbiotic friendship with this man could end, and the inevitability of it all makes him wonder if John hadn't known it too.

The moment passes with a silence. Sherlock notices, and turns his fragile concentration back to Mycroft. There is no overt change of expression - just a small, almost imperceptible tensing around the forehead, and a subtle narrowing of his gaze. Sherlock cannot speak, but he jerks his head in an impatient, irritated motion. _Well? Go on then. _

Mycroft walks towards the bed with all the barely concealed reluctance of a man readying himself for the gallows. He perches himself on the edge of the mattress, steepling his fingers meditatively against his chin. There is a crack on the wall opposite, running from ceiling to skirting board, and he fixes his attention upon it resolutely. Sherlock's glare is burning into the back of his skull like a laser, but he cannot - _cannot _- turn to face him. Instead, he focuses on the crack with near superhuman determination, staring at it until he begins to see it throb and writhe in it's dark corner.

"Sherlock…" he starts, but quickly trails into silence, because, really, what can he say? How can he possibly explain to Sherlock all that has occurred whilst he was locked away in a sunless basement at the behest of a madman? How can even attempt to translate the terror, the fear, the grief, of the past forty-eight hours into mere vocabulary? It seems an impossible task. Not for the first time in his life, Mycroft feels acutely aware of the constraints of the English language. The things that he needs to communicate are simply too great, too terrible, to be encapsulated in such a limiting way. And yet he knows that he must, because - as inadequate as they are - words are all that he has to offer his brother right now.

_But it's not enough_, he reflects sadly. _How can it ever be enough?_

Mycroft inhales deeply and closes his eyes. Does not open them. Speaks instead to the unfeeling darkness:

"John is dead, Sherlock."

A pause. He allows the statement to hang in the air between them, like heavy static. The florescent strip light flickers a little, and - God help him - Mycroft is shaking. He can feel his usual indifferent veneer splintering away at the edges, revealing something raw and unsightly underneath. Counts the seconds as they trickle past: two, three, four…

Mycroft chances a look down at the bed. Sherlock is staring numbly into the middle distance. A pulse flutters like a caged bird in the hollow of his throat, but beyond that, he is motionless. The automaton beneath the flesh is struggling to process this new data. Mycroft can see his thoughts unfurling in the space before him, as clearly as freshly inked type on parchment.

_John is dead._

_John is dead. John is dead. John is dead. _

_John. Is. Dead.._

"You have to understand," he says, rather too quickly, and Mycroft isn't really talking to Sherlock at this point, but the bottle has been uncorked now, so he rambles on regardless, "We all saw the videos. Moriarty hacked John's blog and started posting them online within hours of your abduction . We watched you get beaten. Tortured. Shot. And John…well, he was beyond all reasoning with, Sherlock. He was like a man possessed. And when the lead came through that Moriarty's location had been discovered, he didn't wait for Lestrade to mobilise the Yard. He went in there himself. Alone. To rescue you. Or avenge you, more likely." Something unreadable passes over Mycroft's features. He sighs wearily. "Of course, in retrospect, it seems an obvious trap, but at the time…"

Mycroft then grimaces, once again fading into self-preserving silence. All natural eloquence abandons him. His words taste like ash on his tongue.

"But it was quick, Sherlock," he says tightly after a beat, and instantly hates himself for spouting such a hollow platitude. "I promise you, he would not have suffered."

_Lies_. So many lies, one on top of the other. He is dizzy from all the falsehoods that he spins in the name of Queen and Country. But this one is for Sherlock, and he hopes that his voice holds more conviction than he feels. Because Mycroft has viewed the bloody mess that he had once known as John Watson, and he knows that what happened to John was _not _quick, and he most assuredly _did _suffer.

Sherlock does not react. He stays cocooned in his inner space, his brain reverberating with a scream that he does not know how vocalise.

_John. _

_Is._

_DEAD._

Sherlock blinks - once, twice - and the gears align into place with a visible shudder. He feels something inside rupture and die, and it is with a sense of detached surprise that he realises that it is only his heart. Then he squeezes his eyelids closed, turns his face to the wall, and it is clear that the conversation is over.

Mycroft tenses. He braces himself by instinct, supposing that tide of Sherlock's grief will come crashing over them both like a tempest. The expectation turns the waiting into something brittle and delicate, like spun glass, and Mycroft can hardly breath for fear of it. But ultimately, the moment bubbles over into nothing, and Sherlock does not move.

Mycroft waits for what feels like hours, wavering at the edges of Sherlock's vision. He suspects that he has failed him in this somehow, and wonders how normal people deal with these situations. He feels as though he should touch him, should provide some tactile gesture of comfort, of reassurance, but his fingers hover uselessly over Sherlock's wrist, and he finds that he cannot complete the action. He balls his hands into fists instead, and shoves them deep into his pockets. He and Sherlock have never had that kind of relationship. Pointless, really, to try now.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs softly, and means every word of it. "Truly, I am."

Sherlock does not respond to his words. He has retreated deep within his own fortifications, far away from Mycroft's reach.

And there is nothing more for Mycroft to do. He stands up, smoothes at the creases in his jacket, and retreats as quickly as he can without breaking into an obvious run. He doesn't turn around until he has made it to the end of the corridor, past the nurses station, to the doorway where his minder stands waiting with a police escort. Then he stops, and covers his face with his hands. Shame buries itself under his skin, parasitic and wriggling.

There is a reason why Mycroft Holmes wages wars from the polished comfort of an office in Whitehall. A reason why he orders abductions, torture, death, from over a telephone, safely removed from the horror that his instructions frequently produce. It is because he is, at heart, a coward, and like all cowards, he has never liked to get his hands dirty.

He draws his hands away and stares as them dumbly. They feel dirty now.

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Time passes.

Seconds. Hours. Moments. Days. Impossible to say exactly how long it has been since Mycroft's departure. Sherlock has not moved an inch since his brother's exit. He lies there, dry-eyed, trembling, and deafened by the roar of white-hot blood in his head. The novelty of this new sensation would be fascinating, if he wasn't so certain that he will die from it.

Not for the first time, he finds himself marvelling distractedly at how small a thing a human life really is. When it ends, the heavens do not rip asunder at the loss. There is no great cataclysm, no earth-shattering upheaval. Just a pause, and a silence, and a memory that fades with the passing of time. It's a surprisingly banal occurrence, when looked at objectively. After all, for all the pontification and posturing of philosophy and religious dogma, the fact remains that _everybody dies_. How dull. How unforgivably commonplace.

And the truth is that there has never been any horror in this realisation for Sherlock. He has spent a significant proportion of his life in the company of the dead, and felt no abject terror at the mechanics of human mortality. Indeed, when he considers it closely (and he frequently does), he sees that people are little more than lumps of animated carrion, groping their way blindly through their small, trivial lives until death taps them on the shoulder, and the lights go out. It's nothing, really. Simple, irrefutable biology. And he stands apart from it all - the great Sherlock Holmes, an ubermensch in the midst of a flock of terminally stupid sheep - and _sneers_. Congratulates himself on his own emotional detachment. His superiority.

…Or at least, that is what he _had _thought. But now he sees -_ understands _- that he has miscalculated somewhere along the line. Because this new development, unexpected as it was, has changed everything. This was _John_. _His _John. And he _feels _this death. Feels giddy, and sick, and far, far away from himself. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but he suspects that it will, in time. The only sensible thing to do now, it seems, is to shutter down on the pain before it has chance to take root and grow into something ugly and untameable. He allows the automation to take control. This, he can do. Must do. It is the only reasonable solution.

_John is dead. John is dead. John is dead. _The mantra repeats itself in an endless cycle. Mycroft's words echo through his chest, in the empty spaces where he was certain that his heart once beat. That physical organ has not failed him, he knows this - he can hear the cardiac monitor bleeping incessantly beside him as testimony - but somehow, at this particular moment in time, he is having some trouble believing it.

_John is dead. _

The room spins around him in sickening motion, greying at the edges of his vision. He tries to remember when he last saw John, what he was wearing, what words he said or didn't say, but finds that he cannot recall them. Curious, in fact, how little of the past two days that he remembers. He suspects that his unconscious mind has repressed the details, presumably in an instinctive effort to shield his waking self from the horror of what has occurred. His brain - like the efficient, unfeeling computer that he has always considered it to be - is programmed to preserve itself against internal damage. Corrupted memory file: located. Isolated. Deleted.

Nevertheless, he is haunted by a lingering sense-memory - a smell of damp, dank sewers, and the echo of demented laughter rolling in the darkness.

_"I said that I would burn the heart out of you, didn't I, my sweet? And Daddy always keeps his promises. Think you're hurting now? Oh Sherlock, baby, I haven't even started on you yet. Just wait until you see what I do to your pet doctor…" _

Something liquid surges in the pit of his stomach. His gropes blindly for the alarm at his bedside, and pushes - hard. Seconds later, a nurse bustles into the room. She looks over him anxiously.

"Is everything alright, Mr Holmes?"

He shoots her a look that was intended to wither, but finds that it loses something of it's poison in the execution. _No_. _Everything is demonstrably __not __alright, you __idiot__, _is he _wants _to say, but the night has swallowed his voice, and so he bites down on his irritation like a muzzled dog. There is something venomous pooling in the back of his throat. He can taste it when he swallows, like battery acid.

The nurse hovers closer. She is a large lady, and her shoes shuffle heavily against the linoleum. "Are you in pain?" she asks, sincere in her concern. Motherly in a way that his own mother never was.

_Is _he in pain? He doesn't know. The concept is too abstract, his thoughts too disconnected, to properly give form to the hollow sensation that he feels unfurling within his ribcage. Far easier instead to focus on his physical discomfort. His skull is a jigsaw of fractured ceramic, and he feels certain that if he moves his head too quickly, his soupy brains will come spilling out of the cracks. _This _he can deal with. Understand. Measure against set parameters. He is familiar with this kind of pain.

Sherlock nods shakily - up, down, up again - and sinks back in relief as she moves to adjust the IV drip. The drugs slip into his bloodstream like a caress, and then there is nothing. Only a dark, dreamless sleep, like the slumber of a dead man, and the resonance of Mycroft's words following him into the shadows.

_John. Is. Dead. _


End file.
